


By Rote

by Argyle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quite unexpectedly, it's become the sort of thing that happens all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Rote

It's become the sort of thing that happens all the time. John, groggy after a night spent rooftop-hopping (or mostly, as he'd also spent a heady slice of said night getting fucked into a delicious pulp by his flatmate), stands against the sink with his razor and a palmful of shaving foam. His hand is steady. He can do this sans mirror, in a pinch--

The razor _scritches_ a stripe of foam from his jaw.

\--But not now: he has to move fast. Without warning and ever expected, Sherlock glides into the tight space, works his hands down John's bare spine as if to ensure all vertebrae are present and ranked, and hums low with approval. Then he shucks his pants (John's eyes fall to Sherlock's arse, pert as anything and pale as the rest of him but for the bruise bloomed out from his coccyx, a souvenir from a run-in with a rain-slick fire escape) to the tile, and closes the shower door behind him.

The pipes are decayed and fussy, but Sherlock knows exactly how to work them to groaning. A billow of steam rises doggedly behind. Then: "Flannel."

John pulls it from the rack, dried stiff and still smelling of Sherlock's soap. "This is the last one in the flat. You'll have to quit using them to catch acid drippings."

"One could always buy more," says Sherlock. His hand rises above the stall, and John has to go up on tiptoe to pass it over.

"Could do, yes," John says, looking back at his fast-fading reflection.

It isn't that he minds the company. He can't muster envy for unshared space -- no chapter in his life has managed to instill the need for privacy.

And he's used to timing things. Four minutes into Sherlock's hot shower– Well. Why not be honest? Hot isn't at all the word for it. Sherlock once pulled John in behind him and the water was _scalding_. It'd made all of John's exposed expanses feel stretched out and over-tight, and he'd yelped, half-crazed, until Sherlock maneuvered back to block the stream. As far as surprise blowjobs went, it was well and truly memorable.

Again, four minutes: the mirror is fogged despite the open door, and John spots Sherlock only fleetingly through the glass and surrounding cloud, foot and forearm and neck.

It's routine. But that doesn't mean John likes it any less. He pats his face dry and ticks off seconds before the water temperature hits Sherlock's tolerance threshold, which is usually anything below forty-six degrees. Sherlock wrenches the tap off, and then he's out, white flesh gone pink all over, with darkened, wet hair flush against his head, and his mouth stretched into a grimace.

"Hot water down by twenty percent," he complains. "You were in before me."

"Don't be absurd."

"You snuck in while I was sleeping."

"Sherlock, you were sleeping half _on top_ of me," John laughs. "There's no way I could've got out without you noticing. Besides which, the hot water lasted exactly as long as it ever does. You do realise it's a wonder we've ever any at all in an old place like this."

Sherlock rolls his shoulders, sending drips off his skin in a neat arc. Yet more collect at his clavicle. He rumbles grandly, "Mrs Hudson, then. Having one of her _baths_."

"Yes, well. When you're her age, you'll be fortunate not to have twice her aches."

"Sentiment. I've twice her aches _now_. I was concussed no less than five days and twelve hours ago."

Unbidden, unwelcome, a shudder is ready to rip down John's frame. He stifles it. "Right. I think we've both had more than enough close calls."

Sherlock seems to consider this. Then, stepping close to John: "Very perceptive. There are some for whom only the real thing will do." His breath is hot on John's temple. It grazes the skin there, sharp as a scabbard.

His mouth on John's is hard, unflinching. It's also well versed.

John moans into it because, hell, who's to say he oughtn't? Sherlock's not complaining. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock wasn't listening, so intent is the slide of Sherlock's hands to John's groin. John reaches up without looking, pushes the hair from Sherlock's brow, skirts Sherlock's nape and reaches to knead the muscles that join Sherlock's neck to his shoulder.

"Sherlock."

"Mm."

"Sherlock, d'you think we should take this back to bed?"

"Here's fine."

John huffs out a breath, but distractedly: Sherlock has found John's left nipple, and is presently conducting a very thorough-- oh. Sherlock's teeth nip the taut flesh, and John's train of thought is derailed by a bloody great big fiery-- " _Fuck_."

Sherlock shifts lower and laughs against John's belly, the deep, clever vibration in his throat creating tiny seismic echoes in John's abdomen. "Consider this an exercise in environmental observation," Sherlock says and drags John's pants down about his ankles. "Temperature, oh, sixteen point six. Roughly. Seventy percent humidity, but the dew point is dropping fast." He takes John's cock in his palm, his fingers tracing John's balls, and strokes his tongue round the exposed head, laving the slit.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you do know how to chat a fellow up."

"Mm," Sherlock hums around him. By now, he's taken his own cock in fist. He strokes evenly, perfectly, in time with each hot, hollow-cheeked movement on John.

John's knuckles go white with his grip on the edge of the sink. He's not seventeen -- he can hold his own in bed, can stretch things out, right out, sure he can -- but Sherlock will finish him like it's nothing at all. Hell, maybe it isn't.

Maybe it's just this: Sherlock, all bony back and tucked-in head, his hair reforming into obstinate curls, albeit still damp ones. Sherlock, all air and heat and moisture, a bloody-minded force of nature in his own right.

John comes with a moan, but without warning. Sherlock swallows him down. He's still working at himself, and somewhere past the slight ringing in his ears ( _tinnitus_ , Sherlock would chirp), John can make out the muffled slip of skin on skin. Sherlock lets John slide free of his mouth, and the noise he makes when he comes is short, abrupt, little more than a grunt. His hands spread flat on the tiles. He's bracing himself. His breath is heavy.

John's knees knock together, wobbly as he lowers himself to the floor. It's wet, and the tiles are cold on his bare arse -- he knows instinctively that he'll have to face down a chill for half the day if he lingers there. "Well," he says. The syllable is shakier than he means, or softer than he wishes; he isn't sure which.

Sherlock looks up. There's a smile playing at his mouth.

John returns it. Lets it widen to a grin. Damn it, but the truth is only that he hasn't a choice in the matter. It's become as habitual as breathing. Intrinsic. So he leaves it at this: "Do you suppose the hot water's replenished?"

"Only one way to find out," says Sherlock.

The thing is, it isn't. Sherlock whines creatively, and John pretends not to hear.


End file.
